


Pinned

by biocomp



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android Bullshit, Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post Canon Events, Rough Sex, Semi-Clothed Sex, Spanking, Transdroid, erotic asphyxiation, gun mention, mild violence, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 00:06:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15762528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biocomp/pseuds/biocomp
Summary: Connor looks back into his eyes, tilting his head back a little.  “How about a deal, Lieutenant?”Hank squints at Connor, setting his jaw.  “A deal.”“If you can break my grip,” Connor murmurs, tapping his index finger against Hank’s wrist, “I’ll let you fuck me.”





	Pinned

**Author's Note:**

> !!! Connor has a vagina in this fic, and I use vagina specific terms. Please read at your discretion. !!!
> 
> Well. Here I am. I blame twitter Jericho. As always, No Thanks to Dage, a fucking scourge on this planet.

“Stay behind me.”

“Got it.”

They’re standing outside apartment 35D on the third floor of a complex that smells like it was built from the paper of Hank’s grandmother’s scrapbook. The wood of the door is dark and scratched, the gold type set into the grain flaking from time and disrepair. Hank holds his gun at the ready, eyes sharp, and Connor waits behind him, his own firearm pointed at the floor, his hands clenched around the grip calmly. They’d tried knocking twice already and received no reply. 

“Police,” Hank barks, his tone severe. “Open up!”

He glances over his shoulder and catches Connor’s eye, the two of them nodding in unison as they hear scrambling inside. Hank’s head whips around and he crashes bodily into the door, breaking it open with the bulk of him. Connor snaps his gun up, carefully aiming just over Hank’s shoulder. His LED flashes yellow and he remembers the first time they’d done something like this, the sound of bird’s wings, the stench of shit and Hank’s distressed cry echoing in the empty, cavernous rooms.

There’s no birds this time. The walls are a dark red, covered in frames, the rugs beneath their feet thick and plush, dampening the sound of their steps. Hank goes straight down the hall, and Connor banks left down another. He can hear Hank moving through the rooms, calling out his status as he goes. Clear. Connor’s gaze is hard over the barrel of his pistol and he analyzes each room in the blink of an eye.

The frames continue here, too, into a small office. Connor scans their contents. Papilio indra. Papilio rutulus. Morpho peleides. Butterflies. Hundreds of them. Something crashes to his left and he turns sharply, index finger twitching towards the trigger of his gun. “Hank!” His voice is clear, calm, and he speaks loudly enough that he knows Hank will understand despite the space between them. “Found something!”

He starts forward, anticipating Hank’s arrival. The soles of his shoes sink into the rug. The hallway ends in a corner and Connor presses his back to the wall, peeking around it. The door to a small kitchen sits 5.33 feet away, the old fluorescent lights in the ceiling buzzing loudly. Connor can see someone’s hand on the floor, palm up, in a pool of red liquid. He assumes blood, but one should never assume anything, he thinks. Hank presses against the wall next to him and Connor glances at him, calmed by his presence.

“I believe we have a potential body on our hands.”

“Great,” Hank groans. His shoulder is pressed to Connor’s. “See the perp?”

“Negative.” 

Something shifts around the corner and Connor snaps back to attention, Hank tensing at his side. 

“Sydney Belmont,” Connor shouts, keeping his tone even. “You are under arrest for the murders of Heather Ringwald, Min-Seo Park, and Dana Greyson.” 

There’s another clatter in the kitchen and the sound of breaking glass and Connor immediately sprints down the short hall into the room. In less than a second he takes in the body on the floor, the gash in her neck, the broken glass on the far side of the room. The window is broken and a figure is making for the fire escape, the jagged remnants of the window pane red with blood. Connor holsters his gun and starts after the figure, leaping through the window easily.

“Check on her,” Connor calls behind him. “I’ll pursue.”

He hears Hank call back. “Got it!”

The android launches himself over the railing of the fire escape, hitting the ground and rolling smoothly to his feet. He sees the back of the perp receding into the darkness and takes off, his steps cracking loudly against the pavement. Connor’s LED flickers yellow as he contacts the station. Suspect fleeing south on foot down Sedgwick Avenue towards Martin Boulevard. All nearby units be advised. Suspect may be armed.

Sydney is a thin, scraggly sort of person, but he can run like a motherfucker. Connor redirects power from his secondary systems to his legs, cutting his simulated breathing and vocal modulator. He picks up speed, closing the distance between them with terrifying, agile strides. Sydney banks right and tries to scrabble over a gate, almost succeeding before Connor’s vice-like grip curls around his ankle and pulls. Connor slams him onto the ground, knocking the breath out of him with a grunt. He yanks Sydney from the pavement and slams his front against the brick of the nearest building, his hands pressed tight against his back in one of Connor’s own.

Connor directs power back to his voice box. “You are under arrest.” He presses Sydney’s head harder against the wall, grinding the grit of it into his cheek. “For the murders of Heather Ringwald, Min-Seo Park, and Dana Greyson. And,” Connor adds, realizing he can tack another charge onto this monster, “resisting arrest.”

“Holy shit.”

Connor turns his head, smiling as Hank stares at him. His partner is out of breath, sweat dripping down his face and into his collar. He breathes hard, his gaze volleying between Connor and the perp. 

“Hello, Lieutenant.” Connor says it as though they’re meeting casually in the break room. “How is the woman we found in the kitchen?”

“Alive.” Hank wipes his sleeve over his forehead. Sirens echo in the near distance and blue and red lights flash towards the end of the street. Connor pulls the handcuffs from his belt and snaps them around Sydney’s wrists, a little tighter than necessary.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

——————————

Sydney confesses almost immediately. 

It’s mildly anticlimactic, Connor thinks, tapping his index finger against the surface of his desk. He’s not surprised, granted the amount of evidence they’d collected over the last three months, but Connor would have liked to have the chance to interrogate him. He glances towards Hank’s desk at his empty chair. Hank had been the one to extract the confession. Connor was supposed to be filing the paperwork, but he’d done it in record time and now here he is, waiting. He places his other hand on his desk and taps with that index finger, too. He searches an online database for different marching band cadences and downloads a couple, tapping out a string of notes.

“For fuck’s sake, Connor! Cut that shit out!” Reed’s voice slices through the still air of the bullpen. Connor cuts it out.

He’s been waiting for Hank for almost an hour. Connor shifts his hands to his thighs and taps his fingers against the fabric of his slacks in perfect little waves, pinkies to thumbs. He sorts through the alerts he’s gathered throughout the day. He pays the electric bill. He is horrible at waiting for Hank. Exactly an hour, now.

Connor sits up straighter when the distant sound of Hank’s footsteps drifts into his audio processors. He’s not even in sight yet, but Connor knows it’s him. Hank walks heavy, usually dragging the heel of his left foot the tiniest amount. Connor sometimes looks at the bottom of his shoes when he’s tidying up, smiling quietly at the wear on the sole of Hank’s shoe. Connor laces his fingers together and tilts his head at his partner as Hank rounds the corner, pushing through the glass doors into the bullpen. Connor smiles at him, a closed lip thing that still carves dimples into his cheeks. 

Hank rolls his eyes, his own mouth jerking up at the side. “You miss me?”

Always, Connor wants to say. Incessantly. Instead he shrugs a little and looks up at Hank through his eyelashes. “Maybe. Is Mr. Belmont comfortable?”

“County’s gonna pick him up in the morning.” Hank hooks his fingers under the collar of his jacket and pulls it from his chair, slinging it over his shoulders. “Come on. Fowler’s letting us leave early.”

Connor stands, pouting a little. “You didn’t ask if I finished the paperwork.”

Hank looks back over his shoulder, his expression sour. “It’s you, Connor. You always finish the paperwork.”

“Not this time.” Connor pulls his blazer on over his navy button up, fixing the cuffs.

Hank rolls his eyes and scoffs, turning back towards the door and stomping away. “Yeah, I totally buy that.”

“Get a room,” Barks reed. Hank doesn’t pause, only throws up his middle finger as he nears the exit.

Connor circles around his desk to Hank’s, pulling open a drawer and retrieving his partner’s phone before jogging to catch up with him. He slaps the phone into Hank’s palm and winks at him. “You’re slipping, Lieutenant.” Connor holds open the door without even glancing at it, his eyes on Hank’s face and his head tilted.

Hank holds the same finger up to Connor and pushes past him towards the parking garage. They walk side by side, Hank’s hands shoved in his pockets, Connor’s behind his back. It’s blissfully quiet in the precinct, a rare occurrence since the revolution. Their footfalls are louder than usual in the empty hallway, dying out as they approach the elevator. Hank thumbs the up button, his voice gruff but gentle as he speaks. “Nice work out there, Detective.”

Connor hums, watching the numbers on the LED display above the elevator doors. “To you as well, Lieutenant.”

The contraption dings and the doors open and they step inside, Connor syncing his steps with Hank’s. He watches Hank press the button for level 4, the pad of his finger sliding down the surface before his hands return to his pockets. Connor desperately wants to hold those hands. They’ve been working longer days, recently, with this case being what it was. Serial killers required overtime. They hadn’t done more than kiss goodnight in at least two weeks, and Connor was aching for some sort of physical contact, some sort of release. 

“What?” Hank’s voice interrupts his thoughts. “I got something on my face?”

The doors clank open again and Hank steps out into the parking garage. Connor follows behind, his grip on his own wrist tensing behind his back. “Yes. Two eyes, a nose, a mouth—”

“Shut up,” Hank snorts. He takes his keys out of his pocket as they near the car. “You’re goin’ submarine on me.”

The android blinks and his LED switches from yellow to blue. “Apologies.” Connor walks behind the car, opening the passenger door and sliding in. Hank slams his door shut. “I was just thinking about how long it’s been since we last… Engaged.”

“Engaged.” Hank looks at him with a pinched sort of expression.

“We haven’t fucked in two weeks,” Connor says.

“Ah,” says Hank. His pulse spikes. He starts to perspire slightly at the temples. “Yeah. Hasn’t been much time for... ‘Engaging.’” Hank stabs his key into the ignition and starts the engine, slapping his arm behind Connor’s seat to pull out of his parking spot.

“I know you masturbated on Wednesday.” Connor watches the parked cars as they pass. “In the shower.”

“Yeah, well, you cranked it, too.” Hank turns on his blinker, turning without glancing towards his partner. “You changed the sheets.”

Connor clicks his tongue. Hank grunts out a soft laugh. He’s becoming too proficient in reading Connor’s tells. He’ll have to switch things up.

_____________

Sumo is inconsolable when Connor finally opens the door, stomping circles around them as they shuffle off their coats and shoes and lock the door. Connor manages to dodge around him and pads sock-footed into the kitchen, pulling Sumo’s food bin from the cabinet and pouring a cup into his metal bowl. There’s a scrabbling of claws and the thumping of paws before Connor hears a thunk and Hank’s quiet swear. 

He leans around the doorframe to see Hank on his ass, his back against the door. Connor raises his eyebrows.

“My own dog fucking tripped me.” Hank sounds betrayed.

Connor’s face breaks into a crooked little smile and he laughs softly, crossing the living room to offer Hank his hand. “I fed him. He’s only loyal to me, now.”

Hank claps his palm to Connor’s and lets him lift him up, keeping his grip on Connor’s hand even as he steadies himself on his feet. Connor looks up at him curiously through his eyelashes and Hank clears his throat. He brings Connor’s hand to his mouth and kisses gently at his knuckles. 

Connor’s body relaxes in a wave, his free hand dropping to Hank’s hip, his thumb hooking in the belt loop there. He watches Hank’s face, his eyes heavy lidded. Hank presses the back of Connor’s hand to his cheek and Connor pulls his skin away, letting Hank’s beard rub against his bare chassis.

“You were really something, y’know?” Hank murmurs. Connor tilts his head. “Chasing down that perp.”

“We’ve chased down a lot of perps together, Hank.” Connor’s own voice is soft, his thumb skimming over Hank’s knuckles.

“You jumped thirty feet and lived.” Hank chuckles, releasing Connor’s hand. It immediately moves into Hank’s hair, Hank’s fingers still pressed to the curve of Connor’s forearm. “That’s pretty fucking incredible.”

“I’m an android.” Connor scoffs. He tilts his head a bit more as Hank’s mouth drifts closer. “You must be getting old, if you can’t even remember that.”

“Asshole.” Hank slots their mouths together, lips pressing slowly and sweetly against Connor’s. Connor smiles against his mouth. He draws their bodies flush with a tug of his wrist, opening his mouth and cradling Hank’s head. Hank sighs into him, fingertips sliding down Connor’s arm and up to the hinge of his jaw, thumb tracing the line of it. The palm of his other hand presses warmly to Connor’s chest, over the circular outline of the pump regulator under his shirt. Connor’s skin flickers out where they press together.

“Are we… engaging?” Connor murmurs, licking a hot stripe over Hank’s bottom lip. 

Hank grunts and pulls back holding Connor’s chin in his fingers. “I wanna try something.”

Connor’s eyes widen and he blinks rapidly, his LED flickering. “Something new?”

Hank nods, his expression guarded. “You were… uh. Pretty rough with that perp.”

Connor’s brows shoot towards his hairline. He tilts his chin down, the pink of his tongue darting out to wet his lips before he drags the bottom one through his teeth. “You want me to be rough with you, Hank?”

Hank’s gaze sinks down and to the left, a flush crawling up his neck and the shells of his ears. “You don’t have to make fun of me.”

“I’m not.” Connor dips his head and takes Hank’s thumb into his mouth, rubbing the pad of the digit with his tongue. He lets his mouth hang open, his voice modulator functioning separately from his still lips. “I’m intrigued.”

Hank’s starting to sweat again, the blush slowly edging onto his cheeks. He clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Connor laces his fingers around Hank’s wrist, kissing the heel of his hand, the soft flesh at the inside of his forearm. “How rough, Hank.”

He can feel Hank’s pulse race where his lips press to his skin, no scan required. He drags his teeth back and forth there, grazing the flesh gently. Hank shivers. Connor murmurs against him. “Tell me how rough.”

“Throw me around a little, maybe.” Hank’s looking at the curl at Connor’s forehead, obviously avoiding his eyes. Connor hasn’t seen him this shy in a while. “Hold me down, I guess.”

Connor hums. He digs his nails gently into Hank’s skin. Hank’s heart skips a beat. 

“If you want me to stop,” he whispers, loudly enough that he’s sure Hank can hear, “say Virgo.”

Hank looks at him curiously, his brows drawn together. Connor tightens his grip on Hank’s wrist and slams it up over his head against the door. Hank grunts, reaching out to grab Connor’s arm with the other. The android has it against the wood quick as a shot, his chest pressed to Hank’s. Hank’s breath stutters and he pushes against Connor’s grip, clenching his jaw.

Connor kisses him chastely, slowly, working down the curve of his jaw. “How’s that, Lieutenant? Feel okay?”

Hank huffs a breath through his nose. He pushes at Connor’s grip again and Connor smiles slightly against his skin. “I asked you a question, Hank.”

Hank nods once, his fists clenching and unclenching where Connor holds them. HIs voice claws out of his throat like gravel. “Feels good.”

“Good,” Connor echoes, his voice low. Hank’s body shudders against his at the sound. He drags Hank’s wrists down against the wood, pressing them to his sides. His grip is tight. Not painful, but tight. Connor glances from Hank’s face to his groin and sees the bulge growing in Hank’s jeans, tucked to the left side. 

Connor looks back into his eyes, tilting his head back a little. “How about a deal, Lieutenant?”

Hank squints at Connor, setting his jaw. “A deal.”

“If you can break my grip,” Connor murmurs, tapping his index finger against Hank’s wrist, “I’ll let you fuck me.”

Hank shifts his jaw, grinding his teeth. Connor watches the muscles in his arms flex as Hank’s fists clench. Hank’s staring at him, trying to decide if Connor is full of shit or not. The tendons under Hank’s skin twitch and Connor pulls back the skin on his hands, drinking in the sensation.

“Alright,” Hank grunts. “Deal.”

Connor smiles, leaning up to kiss Hank softly. Hank presses into it. Connor can feel his hands trembling in what he assumes is anticipation.

He yanks Hank off the door effortlessly, stepping to the side and releasing one of his arms to swing behind him and press one of Hank’s wrists to his back, pushing him forward until his front is pressed against the solid back of the couch. Hank tugs against Connor’s grip as he shoots his hand out and grabs Hank’s free arm, shoving it against Hank’s back. He stacks Hank’s wrists primly, like he’s putting the top piece of bread on a sandwich, and clenches the iron grip of one hand around them. Hank tugs, grunting when Connor pushes him down by the neck, leaning him over the cushions.

“Come on, Hank,” Connor murmurs, a lilt to his voice. “I’m only using one hand.”

Hank tugs, biceps bulging. Connor can feel the sweat gathering along Hank’s skin. He holds tighter.

“Fuck, Connor.” Hank’s voice is strained, but arousal pulses through the words.

Connor drags the heel of his hand up Hank’s neck, slowly curling his fingers to fist in his hair. He pulls back slowly, yanking Hank’s head up. “I want you to, Lieutenant.” He keeps his words soft, leaning over his partner to murmur them near his ear. “I want you to fuck me so, so much.”

Hank struggles against him, tugging at the grip Connor has on his head. Connor watches through half-open eyes, sighing softly as Hank’s thigh brushes between his legs. He’s aching for it, for Hank, but he’s willing to be patient. Willing to do anything for Hank.

Connor releases Hank’s hair and hooks his thumb in Hank’s waistband. Hank freezes, letting his head drop down. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Connor pushes Hank’s wrists higher up his back and he groans, shoving down against the pressure. “Nothing, Lieutenant.” He pulls the fabric over Hank’s ass, slowly. 

The blush on the back of Hank’s neck burns. “Connor…”

Connor presses his palm against the small of Hank’s back, rubbing his thumb against the flesh. Hank’s arms are still bulging under his shirt, his breath raking out of his as he fights Connor’s grip. Connor observes silently, biting his bottom lip. He lifts his empty hand slowly, gently, tilting his head innocently as Hank squirms beneath him.

Lieutenant, wake up!  
Lieutenant, it’s me, Connor.  
Lieutenant, I’m going to sober you up for your own safety.

Connor brings the flat plane of his hand down across Hank’s ass with a smack. Hank jolts, a sound barely escaping his gritted teeth. Connor raises his hand again, blinking slowly. He looks at the red mark already forming on Hank’s skin. His pump stutters.

“Jesus Christ,” Hank bites out, head hanging low. Connor glances up at the back of it. “Holy shit, Connor.”

“Too much?” His voice is laced with anxiety. His hand lowers an inch.

Hank shakes his head. His next words are almost inaudible. “Just. Didn’t expect it.”

Connor blinks slowly once, twice. He looks back at the mark on Hank’s ass.

He brings his hand down hard on the other side. 

Hank jerks again, socked toes curling against the wood floor. Connor drags in a shaky synthetic breath, releases it. Something inside his chest clenches tightly. He wants so badly it hurts. God, he wants.

Connor pulls Hank off the couch, careful of his back, and drags his jeans back up over his hips. Hank groans when the waistband catches on his dick and Connor wants. He walks them forward, Hank thrashing weakly as he does it, before forcing Hank onto his knees and then his stomach. His partner breathes hard against the carpet, his face turned to the side. Connor brushes Hank’s hair away from his mouth, tracing the back of his fingers over the skin of his cheek. A surge of affection rushes through Connor, time slowing for a moment as Hank meets his gaze and his mouth cranks up into a challenging smirk.

The android flips him over, straddling Hank and releasing him. He catches the limbs easily enough as Hank reaches for him. Connor holds Hank’s gaze as he stacks his wrists again, curling his long fingers over them before he leans up and presses them to the floor just above Hank’s head.

“I’m disappointed, Lieutenant.” Connor feigns it, his lips forming a pretty little pout as he sighs. “I really wanted you inside of me.”

Hank grits his teeth, baring them, and pulls with all his might at Connor’s grip. Connor blinks at him, letting up just enough for Hank to think he’s got a chance before clamping back down around the joints. Hank pants, breath hissing out through the gaps in his teeth. Connor shrugs at him, his eyebrows raised tauntingly. “Guess I’ll have to help myself.”

Connor lifts himself off Hank’s hips, maintaining eye contact as he undoes the button on his jeans and drags down the pull of his fly. He tugs down Hank’s pants again, just to his thighs, and wraps his hand around the base of Hank’s dick. It’s thick, full, flushed red and dripping. Connor traces the tip of his index finger up the underside, pressing gently just below the curve of the glans. Hank’s chest heaves. Connor glances down and back up into his face, dragging his tongue over the plush surface of his lips slowly.

“Hank,” he murmurs, dragging out the sound. Ha-a-nk. “Don’t you want me?”

Hank slams his head back against the rug, pulling hard at Connor’s hand and groaning. “You’re the fucking worst.”

Connor has to bite back a laugh. He drags the pad of his finger over the tip of Hank’s dick, spreading precum. “Am I?”

“Awful.” Hank grunts, knuckles growing white as he presses his fingers into his palms. “A fucking terror.”

Connor grips Hank’s cock and Hank moans, a rough and desperate thing. He strokes him once, twice, the dry pull of skin on skin unsatisfying. Connor leans back, dragging Hank up into a sitting position, Hank’s hair falling into his face. He’s got sweat dripping down his brow, his breath still rattling out of him helplessly. Connor holds his hand palm-up just below his chin. “Spit.”

“What?” Hank asks. He tries to blow the hair out of his face.

Connor slaps him, gently. Well, not as hard as the first time he’d done it all those months ago. Hank’s head snaps back to face him. Connor raises his brows, putting his hand back where it had been before. “Spit.”

Hank spits into Connor’s palm roughly.

“Thank you.”

He grips Hank’s cock again, the slide of his palm slick and messy. A small sound drops from Connor’s lips, barely there, and Hank’s head tilts back as his eyes fall shut. Connor tightens his grip towards the head, letting his fingers slip up over the sensitive tip. Hank shudders, his arms limp in Connor’s other hand. Connor is soaking through his briefs, he can feel it in the humid warmth pooling between his legs as he works Hank’s dick. He watches Hank’s expression greedily, twisting his wrist to draw more sounds from his throat. Hank is so thick in his hand, so hot, and Connor feels his body clench around nothing.

He wants. He really, really wants.

But Hank wants, too. And Connor wants to please him.

He shoves Hank bodily against the floor again, holding hank down with a forearm across his chest. Hank flexes his fingers, reaching up to grasp at Connor’s bicep, his wrist. Connor hovers his face low over his partner’s, other hand tugging down his slacks. He manages to shake one leg out and sits back, his palm a solid weight against Hank’s chest, moving with the rise and fall of it.

“What are you doing?” Hank breathes, his fingernails digging into Connor’s pseudo-dermal layer. Connor pulls the skin away and the enamel scratches at his chassis.

Connor says nothing, sitting up on his knees. He scrapes his own fingers up the inside of his thigh, the skin peeling away there, too. Hank chokes as Connor nudges the crotch of his underwear aside and sinks two fingers into the wet heat of himself. Connor moans, a broken sound that rattles through his chest. He feels his fans kick on, whirring desperately. He pulls his fingers out and spreads the fluid over the lips of his entrance, his clit, his thighs. Hank looks like he’s about to pass out.

“Connor,” he manages. “Connor. Holy fuck.”

Hank goes silent as Connor lifts himself, free hand returning to Hank’s cock. He angles it just so, nudging the head against the slick mess between his legs. Hank’s ears are ringing. Connor starts to slide down, slowly, a glitched tangle of sounds projecting from somewhere deep in his chest. He’s so fucking tight, and Hank is so thick, and Connor lets his eyes flutter closed as he seats himself against Hank’s hips.

“I’m sorry,” Connor finally breathes. It sounds like three of him speaking just slightly out of sync. “I wanted it so bad.”

The air rushes out of Hank’s lungs like he’s been punched. His grip on Connor’s arm goes white. He struggles to remember how to breathe. Connor starts to lift himself and Hank growls, voice crackling into a moan at the end. Connor’s hand is so heavy against his chest, a necessary weight. Hank feels like if Connor let go he’d fucking float away. Connor sits hard against his pelvis and Hank’s back lifts off the floor. He’s going to be so, so sore tomorrow. Fuck it. He’ll be sore for the rest of his life with no regrets. 

Connor increases his pace slowly, whimpering, simulated breath shaking out of him unevenly. He drops his jaw as he splits himself on Hank’s cock, insides clenching, exhaling hot air in waves to keep his CPU functional. Hank’s fingernails are digging into his chassis, leaving permanent little scratches Connor knows he’ll be looking at fondly for the next month. He lets his head tip back, dipping one hand down to rub at his clit.

Hank’s voice manages to break through the fog filling his head, broken and hungry. “Choke me.”

Connor’s head falls towards his chest and he forces his eyes open. “What?”

“Choke me.”

Connor whimpers, digging his fingertips into Hank’s flesh. “I’ll monitor your oxygen levels.”

Hank grunts. Connor slides his hand up to Hank’s throat, pressing the curve between his thumb and index finger to the soft flesh below his jaw. Hank’s hands land hard on Connor’s thighs, their flesh slapping together. Connor bucks his hips, writhes, twists himself on Hank’s dick. Hank chokes, gurgles, his eyes rolling back. Connor’s sensors indicate pleasure, not pain, and he fucks down onto Hank harder, desperate.

He releases enough pressure at Hank’s throat for Hank to gasp down a breath. Connor’s hand moves from himself to press against Hank’s stomach and he bounces, leaning his weight onto Hank. Hank’s fingers twitch against the surface of his thighs, gripping hard when Connor strokes Hank’s jaw with his thumb, when Connor clenches his insides tight around Hank’s cock.

Hank’s heart rate spikes, his hips jerking up off the floor, and he comes hard. Connor moans at the sensation, at the hot liquid coating his insides, letting Hank buck into him through it. The added slip of Hank’s cum inside makes Connor pitch forward, his fingers digging into the rug and pulling as he grinds his clit against Hank’s skin, the coarse hair there, the hot length slowly flagging inside him. He comes with a shout, the sound laced with static and electronic tones, his eyes squeezing shut.

Connor feels hands on his hips and he’s being lifted off Hank, his fans working overtime to push the hot air out of his mouth. He pants, more out than in, as Hank sets him on his back on the rug. He can hear Hank hitting the floor again next to him and blindly reaches out a hand. Hanks fingers meet his. They intertwine.

“Fuck.” Hank’s voice comes out clipped, a half-laugh. 

Connor pulls his eyes open, finally letting his jaw click shut. He turns his head lazily, static clinging to the corners of his vision. “Hn.”

“You are insane,” Hank says. He’s drenched in sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead, and he’s grinning. “That was fucking wild.”

Connor lets his mouth quirk up at the side, lets his cheek dimple. “You asked for it.”

__________

“What the fuck happened to you?” Gavin whistles. Hank is leaving the break room with a cup of coffee. He doesn’t stop to give Reed the time of day.

“Bar fight.” Hank sits hard in his chair. Connor sees him tense a little. “The other guy was a real dick.”

“I’ve never been choked out in a fuckin’ bar fight.” Reed leans back in his chair, balancing a pencil between his fingers. “But knowing you, you probably asked for it.”

Hank turns to set his cup on the branch of his desk that faces Connor’s. Connor eyes the line of purple bruises along Hank’s throat. He meets Connor’s eyes and winks.

“Yeah, I did.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please never tell my mom I wrote this.
> 
> @biocomp9 on twitter.


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